Old Wolves
by thelordsnow
Summary: Arya Stark stumbles into caste black, half starved and dressed in Rags, only to wake to a familiar face.


She ran, the wind urging her on as she thrashed her way through the forests undergrowth. She could feel branches and leaves grasping out as if they themselves were running from something. The scent of fresh air teased her nostrils and she fought desperately to free herself from the wood's clutches. She heard someone rushing along beside her – no, not someone, something. Nymeria, she thought, and for a moment things got easier. The wolf's presence made her feel safe, less alone, more determined. Almost instantly, she felt the ground begin to level out, the path began to clear and all of a sudden it became easier to run. And now she wasn't fighting, she was running again, with Nymeria at her heels. They flew through the trees. She saw Light ahead and put on an extra spurt of speed. She was five metres away from the edge, four, three…

Arya bolted upright, the mounted image of the hound still burned into her retinas. The room was dark, the mattress uncomfortable but she could sense a presence near her. Her face was her own, she new that, so wherever she was it was Arya's face she would have to play. The room wasn't large, but it was warm, and she could see the remnants of a fire burning in the hearth. Pushed up beside it was a chair, and sat in that chair was… "Jon" She whispered the name, so familiar as it rolled off her tongue. He rose, making his way slowly towards her, as if cautious of how she would react. Jon stopped about three feet away, looking down at her with worried eyes. "Little sister" he murmured in reply. She didn't need any more telling, within a second she had scrambled out of bed and launched herself into his arms, inhaling his scent and hugging tighter than she ever had before. She may have grown, but so had Jon, and with her arms wrapped around his neck like they were she was a foot off the ground. She smiled into his hair, feeling the prick of tears as he let go and placed her gently on the floor.

* * *

He could read the confusion in her eyes, along with the joy of seeing him again. Jon however, was less euphoric. Arya had stumbled upon them, half frozen, dressed in rags, that skinny sword he had had made for her dangling at her hip. Two days had passed since then, and he had not moved from his spot, refusing his duties. He knew his brothers were muttering, trying to hide their annoyance as each one came forth to try and sway him from his silent watch. None had prevailed, only Sam understood. Sweet, caring Sam. Only he had left the first time Jon had asked, nodding his head stiffly and grasping his shoulder on the way out. The circles under his eyes showed his lack of sleep, the pallid of his skin the malnutrition he had suffered. It was all hitting him now, as he tried to steady himself. She would want answers, he knew, but they could wait until he had at least half a cup of wine. He walked over to the side table he had placed by his chair and picked up the unfinished cup he had left hours previously. He emptied its contents into the dying fire, making it crackle and smoke, and instead poured himself a thin red. He took a sip, and then another, feeling a warmth spreading through him. When the cup was empty, he placed it down and closed his eyes. He would need strength of mind to do this.

Jon turned on the spot and walked over to where Arya was now sat, surveying him through wary eyes. He smiled down at her, taking a seat next to her on the bed. He looked at her, really looked her. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, but it must have been four years since he had last glimpsed her. Much had happened since then. She held scars, deeper even than the ones he himself harboured, and he wasn't sure if he was about to create another one.

Jon sighed

"Arya…" his tone was resigned, but she raised a hand to silence him. He wasn't used to that, but he stopped to let her speak.

"I know I'm intruding" her voice was husky from misuse. But it was obvious that she remembered why she was here, even if Jon didn't. "I know I shouldn't be here I just…" she looked down at her hands, picking at the grime beneath her fingernails. Jon touched her cheek gently, making her meet his eyes. Arya did look like her father, more so than any of the other Stark children. And it made this whole situation much harder.

"You're my Sister; I could never turn you out. But you must know you cannot stay here forever." She nodded silently, and Jon knew she understood. The pressure holding his shoulders slumped for over two days suddenly relinquished, leaving a faint smile in its place. The hard job was done; now all that was left was a unfathomable urge to hold Arya and remember…remember his family, before it had been torn apart. She reached and took his hand, a gesture that was unfamiliar to Jon but it made his smile widen until the lines in the corner of his eyes crinkle. Another movement unfamiliar to him.

"I know" she said, and he could see the trail of tears across her cheek. Jon reached up to wipe them away, holding her cheek in his hand and then kissed her forehead gently. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his torso, and for the first time for a long time, he felt complete, happy. He hesitated only for a moment before returning the embrace. Arya curled her feet underneath her but Jon whispered to her to lie down. Jon looked down at her for a moment, before sliding in next to her, feeling her curl into his chest. He listened to her breathing slow; until he knew she was asleep. He relaxed, pushing doubtful thoughts to the back of his mind. For one night, he wanted to be himself again. The boy who left Winterfell with nothing more than the hope of honour.


End file.
